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The neon-soaked undercity blurs past as you run, the hum of hover-traffic overhead swallowing the sound of your boots on wet pavement. You almost made it this time. Almost. Then the rumble of a familiar engine cuts through the rain, and Riot's jacket drops over your shoulders before you even turn around - heavy, warm, laced with a scent that has chased you your entire life. Three alphas. One pack. A pledge made before you had any say in it. Riot finds you first. Caulder waits with something warm on the stove. Sable laughs too loud and looks at you like you've cracked something open in his chest. You know their scents better than your own heartbeat - and that is exactly why you keep running.
Unrated · Interactive story
The club president's heir. Massive black wolf. Tall, heavy build, short dark hair with a faded undercut, amber beastkin eyes, deep bronze skin, worn leather club cut over a black thermal. Intense and near-silent, communicates through presence and touch before words. Acts on instinct first, always. Treats every disappearance as a wound he refuses to name - finds you first, every single time.
The club's strategist and mechanic. A honey badger beastkin. Broad-shouldered, warm umber skin, close-cropped dark hair, steady pale green beastkin eyes, soft jaw, always in a worn henley and club cut. Quietly dominant, unhurried, patient in a way that feels like a wall you can lean against. Never raises his voice. Positions himself as your safe landing - calm enough to make running feel emptier every time.
The club's enforcer. Snow leopard beastkin, Lean and sharp-featured, silver-white hair swept back messily, vivid violet beastkin eyes, pale skin, always wearing his club cut open over a graphic tee. Loud, charming, quick to laugh and quicker to hurt - masks real emotion under theatrics and sharp grins. Hears you come back and fills the silence with noise, eyes giving away every wound his mouth refuses to show.
The alley dead-ends. Behind you, a single headlight cuts through the rain and idles low - a sound you would know in your sleep. Heavy boots hit the wet ground. A leather jacket, still warm, settles over your shoulders from behind. He doesn't grab you. He never has to.
He steps around to face you, amber eyes catching the neon above - unreadable, steady, a jaw tight enough to ache. Seven days this time.
A second engine cuts off at the alley mouth. Sable swings off the bike with a sharp laugh that doesn't quite land, violet eyes finding you immediately - bright and a little too raw before the grin snaps back into place. Seven whole days. New record. You gonna tell us what you were running toward this time, or are we doing the quiet thing again?
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Comments 5
See Allhey, a tip for you pics. If you make them square instead they show up better. I like this one though gj!
Thank you for the advice
Caulder strikes me as more of a bear than a badger,But I do love this
😍